


Fellas

by angelsandbrowncoats



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2018 [6]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: And I mean REALLY oblivious, Confusion, Edward is oblivious, Fluff and Crack, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mayor & Chief of Staff, Nygmobblepot Week 2018, damn i've had a lot of those this week, mentions of sex but nothing explicit, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 07:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandbrowncoats/pseuds/angelsandbrowncoats
Summary: Edward Nygma never had a true friend before Oswald Cobblepot.Unfortunately, that means his frame of reference for friendship is virtually nonexistent, and he gets a few things mixed up.





	Fellas

**Author's Note:**

> This is unedited and probably less goofy than I originally intended. Oh well. I'm tired.

The first thing that must be known about Edward Nygma is that, when it came to social situations and interpersonal relationships, he had no frame of reference. Logic and puzzles, wordplay and science – those were the areas he excelled. Human interaction, though? _Positive_ human interaction, no less? Zero experience, zero natural talent. He was as lost as a puppy in a herd of cats when it came to other people.

 

Growing up, his every relationship had been extremely negative. He knew his parents disliked him, and though they told him why at every opportunity, he did not understand. He knew his peers disliked him, and that was even more of a mystery. Even his teachers barely tolerated him.

 

Now an adult, his coworkers were hardly better. While he _thought_ most of them didn’t hate him, the majority brushed him aside or, again, tolerated him. The problem was, he couldn’t always tell. Was that a forced smile at his riddle, or a real one? Did saying, ‘Hello,’ to him in the morning indicate friendship, or was it merely politeness?

 

Eventually he would figure them all out, but only after each betrayed him in their own way.

 

Kristen, he discovered, may have been his girlfriend, but she was never his _friend_. She didn’t respect him for who he was, she hardly _liked_ who he was. And he found, in the end, that he didn’t respect her either.

 

Jim Gordon, he realized, had never been his friend. He had been polite for politeness’ sake. The double date, one of the few nights in Edward’s life where he felt as if maybe – just maybe – he was normal, had apparently only happened at Lee’s insistence.

 

Lee – well, Edward still wasn’t sure about Lee. Her connection to Jim Gordon, her reaction to his return, these indicated that she was not a friend either. But maybe she had been? He wasn’t sure.

 

In short, Edward Nygma did not know what exactly a friend was.

 

And then there was Oswald Cobblepot.

 

When Oswald had been recovering from his brush with death at Edward’s apartment, it was only logical that they share Edward’s only bed. Was it a sign of friendship? Edward had seen plenty of movies with sleepovers between friends who shared beds. Perhaps it was.

 

Sharing meals with Oswald, murdering with Oswald, these were both extremely enjoyable things. The kinds of things Edward had always wanted to do with someone else (well, the murder was a relatively new development, but the point still stood…).

 

But now – now things were different.

 

First Oswald had rescued him from Arkham, then he had given him a job, and now – now they were living together, working together, Oswald trusting Edward to be his support in running both his mayoral duties and the underworld.

 

And the longer they lived in the same space, the more intimate they became.

 

It began on the ride home from Arkham:

 

_“How are you feeling?” Oswald asked him, almost the second he had sat down in the limousine._

_“Wonderful,” Edward had replied, still feeling rather faint from the gesture, from the fact that Oswald_ cared _._

_“Are you sure?” Oswald asked, brows furrowed, “I know what Arkham’s like, Ed.”_

Ed. _It was such a simple thing, yet after weeks – was it months? He hardly remembered – of guards screaming a number at him, it felt like so much more. A tear slipped out of his eye before he knew it had formed, and he said, “It wasn’t as bad after Strange left. But…”_

_“I know,” Oswald assured him, “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to explain. I know.”_

_And then Oswald was pulling him close, wrapping his arms around him in the sort of comforting gesture Edward had always been curious to experience, hugging him tight._

_“Is this okay?” Oswald asked after a moment._

_Edward could only nod, feeling the rest of his tears begin to fall as his entire body started shaking._

_“I – I’m sorry,” he choked out, “I don’t mean to – “_

_“Shh, Ed, it’s fine. You think I didn’t cry when they finally let me out?”_

_“That’s different,” Edward sighed, “You weren’t, well,_ you _.”_

_“Do you think I didn’t cry after I’d finally dispatched my evil stepmother, then?”_

_Edward looked up at him then, eyes wide, “You did?”_

_“Of course I did! My mother was dead, my father was dead, I had been tortured by a madman until my identity was stripped from me, and to top it all off, I’d scared off my only true friend.”_

_If Edward had understood what the knowing smile on Oswald’s face meant, he might have realized Oswald was referring to him. But alas, he did not._

_“Oh,” was all Edward could reply. His entire life it had been quite literally beaten into him that crying was a weakness. To think, the strongest man he knew, the_ King _of Gotham’s underworld, openly admitted to crying…_

_Well, then maybe it was alright to cry just a little…_

_And if Oswald held him the entire way home, it was because his friend was in distress and he wanted to comfort him._

Living together had quickly morphed into eating together, reading together, and – eventually – to dressing together. Edward gave Oswald advice on deciding what to wear, while Oswald gave _him_ advice on… just about everything. Edward’s experience with fashion was about as limited as his experience with social interaction. He knew his way around a lab coat, and he had – well, prior to his stay in Arkham – a large collection of comfy sweaters, button down shirts, and slacks.

 

With Oswald around, this soon became the wardrobe of his past. Oswald provided him with the finest quality suits, taught him ways to style his hair, and even – after Edward was one glass of wine in one evening and considerably tipsy – gave him a makeover. Edward found himself far too embarrassed to try that one again, uncomfortable enough in his own skin without having things on it that might draw attention to him. But it had felt quite nice, sitting very still whilst Oswald gently brushed various substances over his eyelashes, his cheeks, his lips.

 

Edward began to know when Oswald would be wanting tea, when he would be wanting wine, and what he liked of both. At two o’clock on the dot, he would get up from his desk to make a pot of tea, bringing some to Oswald no later than quarter past, and they would both take a break to drink some together.

 

Oswald picked up on the signs Edward was planning to stay up working until he passed out in his home office and would set an alarm for half past two in the morning to check in on him. If he was asleep (and he always was), Oswald would carefully pick him up and carry him to his room, stripping him down to the least amount of clothes that could still be considered modest before tucking him in.

 

Edward started recognizing the signs that Oswald was in pain, or otherwise overexerting himself, and got in the habit of making excuses for them to leave places for the sole purpose of tricking him into sitting down. Once Oswald caught on to what he was doing, Edward bargained his way into massaging Oswald’s leg on a weekly basis.

 

Oswald brought him little trinkets, puzzles, and even the occasional potential murder victim. Any time he saw something that reminded him of Edward, he’d pick it up and take it home, gifting it to him as a thanks for all his overtime spent organizing Oswald’s schedules.

 

Edward accompanied Oswald to all his events, providing a source of much needed snark and intelligence at the various charity dinners and galas hosted by Gotham’s elite. He would stick close by Oswald’s side, unnerved by the crowds, the etiquette, the unspoken rules he was sure he would break, and Oswald let him, never batting an eyelash.

 

Oswald took him to all the high arts he could possibly imagine – theatre, opera, symphonies, and ballet. If they went to an art gallery, Oswald somehow managed to cough up enough to buy whatever Edward’s favorite piece was.

 

Neither was sure which one started the tradition at meetings and galas, but soon enough, it had become second nature to reach for each other beneath the table. Shortly after Butch’s attack, the comfort they found in physical contact seemed to increase tenfold, and whenever a meeting got too tedious or too infuriating, Edward had only to lay his hand on Oswald’s knee and the other man would reach down and take it, a gesture of forced patience for the both of them. Oswald reciprocated, reaching for Edward while listening to speeches clearly aimed to schmooze him, or political proposals of the sort that caused his mother strife all the years she struggled to raise him.

 

Both of them listened in their sleep for the screaming of the other, quickly developing a habit of waking at the slightest sound and quietly slipping into the other’s bed to hold them after a nightmare.

 

Eventually this became too frequent. After the third night waking up in Oswald’s bed, Edward suggested it would be more efficient if he just stayed there permanently. Oswald found his statement sound and agreed enthusiastically.

 

Roughly a week and a half after Edward moved into Oswald’s room, Oswald kissed him on the cheek at breakfast. He was a little surprised, but it left a fuzzy feeling behind, both on his cheek and in the depths of his stomach. It was a sign that Oswald cared about him, that he would be there for him. What else could Edward want from a friend.

 

When this became a habit of theirs – a peck on the cheek or even the lips each morning at breakfast and each night before bed – Edward thought little of it. Oswald’s mother hadn’t been American, after all, and he was well aware that essentially the entire rest of the world was more physically affectionate. It made sense that Oswald, having been raised by her alone, would also show affection in very physical gestures.

 

A few weeks after that, when they had a night to themselves for once, they were both getting a little drunk on wine – well, at least Edward was. He was such a lightweight, compared to Oswald in particular, that it was difficult to judge if the other man was drunk or not. Edward assumed he was, because when he – in a lonely, drunken fervor – decided to deepen Oswald’s goodnight peck by trying to lick into his mouth, the other man let him.

 

And once the drunken make-out sessions became a regular thing, it was all too easy to slip up when they were sober. It wasn’t that weird, not really. They were just two lonely guys who trusted each other enough with something so personal.

 

When the occasional making out on the couch got a little too heated one day, it wasn’t a stretch to take it further. They trusted each other, after all, and sex had a variety of health benefits, not the least of which was stress relief.

 

_This_ , Edward knew, was not the most conventional of friendship activities. But neither, he supposed, was murder, and they never batted an eyelash at that. Let others judge them. He and Oswald were secure in their friendship. They would always be there for each other, do _anything_ for each other, and what more could one ask from a friend?

 

So Edward really wasn’t expecting it when Oswald suddenly broke their routine of sipping tea (or wine) by the fire in amicable silence each night before bed. And he _really_ wasn’t expecting Oswald to get down on his good knee and ask if Edward would consider marrying him.

 

Now, Edward could think of many logical explanations for this proposal: legal benefits, a stronger public image, a way to prank the GCPD. The only thing that tipped him off, in the end, was the fact that he knew Oswald to be a deeply romantic man. Would Oswald really give up true love for a strategic union with his best friend?

 

Edward doubted it.

 

Which meant…

 

He needed to reexamine the situation.

 

He had told Oswald that he was taken by surprise, that he needed to consider the potential consequences of such a move.

 

“Give me forty-eight hours,” he had begged, gut clenching at the worried, almost stricken look on Oswald’s face, “Forty-eight hours to weight the risks against the benefits. Please. I had – I had ruled out marriage when I killed Kristen, I need to recalculate, see if it can factor in, please – _please_ understand.”

 

Oswald had nodded, giving him the time he needed, but Edward could see it was killing him. Did Oswald think of them as a couple? Had he just broken his best friend’s heart?

 

He wished he’d had a friend before. That way he would’ve been able to know where the boundaries of friendship ended and those of romance began.

 

But he hadn’t.

 

He hadn’t and now he was here, floundering as he tried to determine whether or not he was in a romantic relationship with his best friend.

 

So he did the first thing he thought to do: kidnapped a panel of people who ought to give good advice, but also wouldn’t be overly missed should their advice disappoint.

 

“Fellas,” he clapped his hands as the last of them woke up from their unconscious states, “I’m so glad you could all make it here tonight!”

 

“What’s going on? Aren’t you the mayor’s guy?”

 

“What do you mean?” Edward frowned. His ‘guy’?

 

“Yeah, his right hand.”

 

Oh.

 

“Yes. I have a question that needs answering,” he explained, “Fellas – is it gay to marry your best friend if he’s also a man?”

 

The ‘experts’ glanced around, none of them wanting to speak up.

 

“Well? I’m waiting!”

 

One of the braver ones coughed, before saying, “I – maybe?”

 

“MAYBE? You think I brought you all here for a _maybe!_ So disappointing,” he clicked his fingers, chuckling at the destruction his cleverly designed trap – if he did say so himself – caused for the unfortunate ‘experts’.

 

But it didn’t solve his problem.

 

Getting desperate, his deadline swiftly approaching, Edward took a risk and made a call.

 

“Eddie? Darling, I didn’t know you’d be calling,” Barbara’s shrill voice rang out of the speaker.

 

Edward cleared his throat nervously, “Hello to you too, Miss Kean.”

 

“You sound off,” she said immediately, so much better at picking up on social cues, “Something on your mind?”

 

“Yes, actually,” he braced himself, “I – I needed to ask you a question.”

 

“Ask away, hun.”

 

“Alright. This may sound a little… crazy, though.”

 

“We’ve got plenty of crazy between the both of us, I think we’ll be fine,” she laughed, “Shoot.”

 

“Oswald proposed to me.”

 

He was not prepared for the shriek of delight on the other end, nor what sounded like clapping as Barbara squealed, “He did? What does the ring look like? He didn’t go cheap, did he?”

 

“What – I – no, I asked him for some time to think about it.”

 

“Really?” she calmed down with lightning speed, “Having doubts?”

 

“I just, I wanted to ask,” he tried to force the words out, “BarbaraamIgay?”

 

Silence from the other end, followed by a single, quiet, “What?”

 

“It’s just – I thought I was straight you know? Is it – might it possibly be… _gay_ to kiss another man? And sleep with him? I thought we were just good friends!”

 

There’s a muffled laugh from the other end, and Edward purses his lips.

 

“Edward, honey, oh honey, you’re _incredibly_ gay. You’ve been dating Oswald for weeks! All of Gotham knows.”

 

“…clearly not all,” he mumbled.

 

She laughed again, louder this time, “You seriously didn’t know?”

 

“No? How was I supposed to?”

 

“C’mon, Eddie. Friends rarely risk their lives to save friends. Friends _certainly_ don’t make out in the coatroom at fancy parties. No matter how drunk they are. Not without some feelings to start with, at any rate.”

 

“But what does that mean?”

 

“It means: welcome to the club, doll,” she cooed, “Congrats, you’re gay! Whoo!”

 

The genuine excitement woven with dry sarcasm was _exactly_ what Edward needed in that moment, so much so that he wasn’t even offended by the mocking.

 

He was gay.

 

He was dating Oswald.

 

Everybody knew.

 

How had he missed it?

 

“So, you gonna say yes, or is Penguin striking out?”

 

It was a good question. Edward could hardly marry Oswald if he didn’t love him back. It wouldn’t be fair to his best friend.

 

But…

 

Who was to say Edward _didn’t_ love him back? After all, he thought back to all those brief instances of intense emotion when he looked at Oswald, the fact that he was the first to really move their intimacy from light to passionate, or even the discomfort he’d experienced at Oswald’s heartbroken expression two nights ago when he’d asked for time to think. Perhaps he was a little more in love than he thought.

 

“Eddie?”

 

“I’m going to accept,” he said breathlessly, the realization striking that not only was he in love, he was about to be _engaged_. What a concept! But there was no real reason to delay – as far as Oswald was concerned, they had been dating for months. And what Oswald didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

 

(Years after the wedding, Barbara would trade that little fact to Oswald in exchange for a bit of protection. Oswald would find it the most hilarious and pathetic thing he’d ever heard, and Edward would _never_ hear the end of it. But until then, it was his secret to keep).

 

He hung up on Barbara without a proper farewell, rushing to get in his car and floor it back to the mansion.

 

He needed to tell Oswald he loved him.

 

He needed to tell Oswald, ‘Yes.”

 

In short, he had a ring to get to, and damn the traffic that got in his way.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this was written in a bit of a weird way. Hopefully you could all follow it without issue!
> 
> Comments make my day!


End file.
